Cellar Door
by Thwack
Summary: Our mission holds no purpose. A series of one-shots between Super Boy and Miss Martian. Rated R for content in upcoming chapters.
1. Comfort

**Cellar Door**

A Super Boy - Miss Martian FanFiction

By **Thwack** (formerly **Sympathique**)

_This is a different take on the one-sentence writing challenge._

* * *

><p>1. Comfort<p>

_Explosion_

There are bodies everywhere.

Literally hundreds of them, littering the streets of downtown like many pieces of confetti. Slumped against buildings and lampposts, hanging halfway out of windows, or lying stagnant on the sidewalk. They are fresh – the peeling skin is still emanating small tendrils of smoke, the muscles not yet stiffening in rigor. The explosion eradicated most of the blood. The wounds (extensive and gaping) were cauterized almost immediately. Everything is in a charred and blackened condition – even the corpses. Especially the corpses. The whole thing resembles a charcoal drawing come to life – or death, as it were.

I have one or two seconds of composure before promptly turning around and becoming sick. Nausea triggers an unbearable churning in the depths of my stomach, and my sphincter gives one pathetic stab at resistance before giving way to the bile. And then I am heaving and heaving and heaving.

The sincerest of efforts were made at evacuation once the bomb threat was realized. I know because we were there, gathered and assessing what could be done. Sirens blaring and yellow caution tape across the pavement. The law enforcement swelling the downtown area with foot soldiers and trucks and all other sorts of machinery. We believed that there was a chance at salvation. Aqualad was strategizing with the commissioner. Kid Flash was practically vibrating where he stood. And Robin, though prepubescent and juvenile in more ways than one, was muttering calculations and disjointed datum on the proper way of dismantling a bomb. We are the Justice League – only pint-sized with a slighter faction. And we were ready to provide evidence to the fact.

But the explosion was premature.

And our approach ill-timed.

I'm still doubled over but thankfully the vomit seems to have died down. The others are there too, but none of them have started chucking their lunches. They are impressive in their impassivity – the only indication that they are reeling is in the hardened lines of their faces; their drooping mouths and downturned eyes; the new heaviness that seems to have burdened their shoulders. One of them has started rubbing my back. I am the only one making a commotion – the only chink in their proverbial armor – but I realize that I'm too overcome with sorrow to feel embarrassed. And really, there isn't anything to be ashamed about, is there? So it turns out my stomach has a delicate disposition when it comes to blistering human cadavers. So I'm tearing up over strangers that I never actually knew. So I am showing a decimeter of emotion for such a gargantuan waste of an existence. I think about the relatives of the dead that are as of yet unaware of the explosion; the lack of embarrassment they will feel when they receive that horrible call. The shifting and realignment of their worlds as the reality of it all changes things forever. I think about the parents who will never see their children and the spouses who promised to love one another forever and the children who will grow up never knowing (but always wanting to know) the sound of their mothers laugh. I think about funerals and gravestones and wasted potential.

There is no reason to feel shame.

I straighten up and meet blue eyes. Connor is looking at me and I can tell that he has been for a while. My throat is still burning from the vomit and there is exhaustion in every contour of my face that I know he can see, but I return the gaze nonetheless. I realize that his is the hand that was rubbing my back – it's still there, warming my shoulder blades. I am waiting for him to do something – say something; comment in that scathing way of his on how being a superhero means not chickening out every time someone bits it. But he doesn't say anything. He doesn't even think anything.

He just keeps rubbing my back.

And I know, then.

Even the strongest of us are not impervious to tragedy.

Even the stoutest can be humbled.

I blink.

Connor drops his hand.

The moment passes.

There is nothing but silence and the soft brush of wind for a few more minutes.

Then Kaldur is exhaling and addressing the team as a whole.

Giving us assignments.

Giving us a purpose.

And we are moving.

But the lingering warmth on my back continues.

And I am comforted.


	2. Kiss

2. Kiss

_Curiosity_

* * *

><p>"You want me to…what?"<p>

I have been cornered in the kitchen by two urchins of treachery on a desperate mission. They materialize from the shadows of the room and begin hovering around me like matching carrion birds, though only one of them is actually named after a fowl. They want something – you can see it in the way they are grinning those Cheshire grins and rocking backwards and forwards on their heels, their eyes thin with cunning. It makes the hair on the back of my neck prickle. I've seen that look too many times not to know better. Right before a murderous Artemis stomped by me on her way to the showers, the putrescent smell of rotting eggs drifting behind her like a poltergeist ("The little punks filled my practice arrows with stink bombs!"); right before a sleeping Kaldur became the unfortunate recipient of the warm water trick ("We wanted to see if it really works!"); right before Connor discovered the complete encasement of his motorcycle in layers upon layers of salami and Saran wrap ("Awesome!"). They are up to no good. And I guess it was only a matter of time before they turned their attention to me, though my considerable optimism had me hoping that they would just grow tired of pulling pranks before that time came – that maybe the thumping Connor had given them would be sufficient in subduing their puerile compulsions. But no such luck.

"Kiss Connor." Wally chirrups

"On the mouth." Adds Robin.

"No tongue!"

I am exasperated. "You're joking, right?"

"Completely serious!"

"One-hundred percent!" Wally nods.

"Like, do you even _know_ how dangerous that is?"

"Well yeah, it's Connor!"

"But that's why we think _you_ should do it!"

"We don't think he'll be as likely to punch you in the face."

"And anyway, sacrifice is necessary to the cause."

"Which is?" I prompt.

"Giving Connor the complete human experience!" Beams Wally.

I am not convinced. "Connor and I are just friends. And I like the way my face is now." I turn my attention back to stirring up the metal bowl full of cookie dough, already writing off their request as something that is not only fatuous and asinine, but also optional. This is something they cannot force. It would have to be consensual for at least one of the participating parties, and that would not be me. Not while I still possessed all of my teeth. But they are not so settled in their defeat. Wally comes blurring in from my left and vaults effortlessly over the counter. He stares at me from across the ingredient-strewn space. Head resting in his palms. Giving me his complete attention. Robin is peering over my shoulder, eyemask wide and unblinking. I shoot him a withering look.

They begin whining.

"Come on!"

"I'll pay you!"

"Oh yeah?" I gesture with the spatula. "With what money?"

"Allowance!"

I'm laughing into the chocolate chips. "No way."

"Please?"

"He's never been kissed before!"

"Yeah, he told us!"

"Connor would never share something like that." I shake my head. "He's too…"

"Cold?" suggests Wally.

"Emotionally stunted?" chimes in Robin.

"Phonetically challenged?" Wally nods, sympathetically.

"Private." I deadpan.

"Well, he did." Insists Wally.

"Last night!"

"Artemis coaxed it out of him!"

"We all heard!" Robin crows.

"He is so busted!"

I don't say anything.

"So does that mean you'll do it?" They lean forward and give me their best attempt at puppy eyes.

I break away a small clump of dough and pop it in my mouth, shaking my head. "Sorry, but no dice."

They glower at me.

They protest.

They bribe me with taking over laundry duty.

But I am stoutly resolute.

And gradually, the conversation shifts. We start talking about school and homework and cheerleaders ("Tell us all about the women's locker room!" "Spare us no details!").

They don't bring up the kiss again.

But I'm still thinking about it.

_Is it true that he's never been kissed?_

.

.

.

.

.

I find out later that it is.


	3. Soft

**Soft**

_Whispers_

* * *

><p>Third period history class.<p>

Three-quarters of the way through.

A lecture on the influence of slavery on economics and territory in southern states.

A mass of textual information on the overhead projector.

Scratching pens on notebook paper.

A few muffled coughs.

The dominant oration of the professor.

The buzzing of a wasp somewhere near the windows.

Connor can hear everything.

The slamming of a locker door two hallways down.

A phone conversation in the office of the Principle.

Even the steady heartbeats around him.

Even:

"You're Megan, right?"

A muted whisper.

From the football player in their sixth period English class.

Addressing:

"Yeah, Megan Morse." She whispers back.

He smiles at her.

A perfect white smile.

Shining in the luminous glowing of the history slides.

Oozing confidence.

She smiles back.

They formally shake hands.

He is suppose to be one of the best athletes in the school.

One of the best in the county, actually.

But that means as much to Connor as one of Wally's dirty socks.

It's not like he (or any human, for that matter) could really compete with him.

Not in strength.

Not in endurance.

Not in speed.

But looks…

Looks might be a different story.

Because the boy is handsome.

Almost illiterate.

But handsome.

Sporting blonde hair and green eyes.

The kind that girls would compare to a temperate forest.

Connor thought they looked more like the color of spinach.

A wholly undesirable vegetable that nobody ever really wants to eat.

"I hear you just moved here. Where're you from?"

"Oh," she shrugs her shoulders and gives him a lopsided grin, "Mars."

He laughs.

"That far, huh?"

"It wasn't easy getting here," she assures him.

"No kidding!"

The professor is moving forward with the lecture.

Explaining the Civil War.

Expounding on the loss of an entire culture.

Continuing into the Civil Rights Movement.

But neither of them seem to notice.

Neither does Connor.

He's seething in his chair.

"So I hear you just joined the Bumblebees. Congratulations," the athlete nods in admiration.

"Oh yeah, I love it already." Megan gushes.

"That's good to hear; I know some of them were really gunning for you in tryouts."

"Really? That's flattering."

"So will you be cheering at the game next Saturday?"

"Oh, I guess I will be. Are you playing?"

"Couldn't have the game without me!" He grins (only half joking). "I'll look forward to seeing you there."

Megan blushes for some reason.

"Have you met my teammates yet?"

Megan thinks for a second. "No, I haven't really gotten the chance to…"

There's the million-watt smile again. "You should come hang out with us sometime. Get to know the team. We're always down to hang with you cheerleaders, especially ones as cute as you."

He has the audacity to wink.

She seems to eat it up. "That'd be fun – I'd like that."

"Sweet!"

The professor glances their way and the athlete has the good grace to wince.

Then he lowers his voice and keeps talking.

"There's a party happening this Friday, you should come. I'll tell my man Marcus that you'll be there. It's his house. But don't worry, he won't mind if you crash it."

"A p-party?"

Connor starts thinking of a thousand and one reasons why she won't be able to go.

A mission.

A bomb threat.

The temporary insanity of a fellow teammate.

He knows that she has never been to a high school party before.

Maybe never even been to a human party before.

Granted, neither has he.

But he has access to something she doesn't.

The locker room.

A cornucopia brimming with social nuances and high school stereotypes.

He knows what human parties involve.

Teenage boys and their hormones.

Lowered inhibitions.

Connor doesn't have to think long to know he doesn't want his girlfriend anywhere near it.

The athlete is leaning closer now, scribbling down directions to his house.

Writing down his name and number in the margin.

Asking for hers.

"Oh, I don't really have a cell phone…" Megan blushes.

"Seriously?"

"Seriously. Mine…broke…and my parents won't buy me a new one …"

"Man, that sucks," the athlete shook his head in sympathy. "Maybe…maybe I could get your home number?"

But Connor is done listening.

Swiveling around, he's slamming a knuckled fist into the plastic surface of the desk.

Denting it.

Glaring.

The class has gone silent.

"Will you two _stop_ talking?"

They stare at him in shock.

Megan is looking confused.

The jock is looking mad.

Connor has enough sense to grind out:

"….I'm just…trying to learn about history…"

There is an awkward moment where nobody says anything.

A pencil rolls off a desk.

The professor clears his throat.

"Umm, yes. That's a very good suggestion, Mr. Kent. Thank you for announcing it so…openly. You two," he's looking at Megan and the athlete, "if you continue talking I'll be forced to give you both detention and no, I have no sympathy for after-school extracurriculars, including football practice. And Mr. Kent?"

Connor looks up at him.

"Try a less…explosive way of getting your point across next time," he looks exasperated.

A few people chuckle.

"Ahem," the professor cleared his throat. "Onward."


	4. Pain

__**Pain**

_Training Simulation_

* * *

><p><em>I am being suffocated by a terrible darkness. I am breathing in heavy tendrils of nothing and tasting the absolute silence on my tongue. The pressure of an infinity without him grinds my body deeper and deeper into the denseness until I am utterly and inescapably consumed. It feels like I have wandered into the lowest depths of an immeasurable ocean where all senses are suddenly muted. I cannot see. These eyes that have gazed into his own are nothing more than two gaping sockets of bone and marrow. I cannot scream. This mouth – the same one that has caressed his name a thousand times (a million times) (a billion times) without ever growing weary of its sound – is a void. I have no substance. I am splitting at every seam until I seem to burst apart. All the little particles of myself are drifting away on an invisible tide and blending into the intricate patterns of nothing and nowhere and never again.<em>

_He is gone._

_He is dead._

_Conner…_

_My Conner…_

_Something is clawing at my chest. I can feel the memories spilling thick from the wound, the moments we shared together pooling around me and seeping into the ground. I look down and take in the cratered cavity, watching as my (foolish) dreams of the future are released into the air like steam. My heart is still pumping fresh blood through my body, though I cannot see how. It has been rendered in two, sliced down the middle like meat on a butcher's cutting block._

_It is the purest kind of agony._

_Undiluted and raw._

_Crippling._

"_It's alright. We'll find him with Artemis. I know it…" Wally is whispering to me. His hands pressing down on my arms._

_Trying to reassure me._

_Trying to override the pain._

_But there is no convincing me. Not when the facts are staring me straight in the face, mocking the optimism that I desperately crave. My mind reaches out, searching for the others and grasping only emptiness. Through a mounting sense of madness, I probe ever crevasse and crack of the spacecraft for even the smallest whispered thought – just one. I know that my telepathy can supersede almost any barrier, physical or mental – or at least recognize that there is a barrier to be breached in the first place. But I cannot connect with someone that was never there to begin with. _

_There is no detention facility. _

_No prisoners to rescue. _

_Our mission holds no purpose._

_I am trembling now._

_Clenching my hand on the spot over my heart._

_Pain is consuming me._

_Conner…_

_._

_._

_._

_._

_._

_I love you…_


End file.
